


I Have Slipped the Surly Bonds of Earth

by Witchy1ness



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Normal Life, POV Original Character, SHIELD, Swearing, but probably not even close to actual levels, what do you expect he's Air Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchy1ness/pseuds/Witchy1ness
Summary: Captain Ramone Peters is enjoying his new position as a fighter pilot with S.H.I.E.L.D.; at least, he is until Maria Hill orders him to get the Hulk's attention.Things....go a little sideways from there.(My OC fighter pilot through the applicable Marvel movies, starting with Avengers. Essentially a whump-fic.)





	1. The Avengers

**Author's Note:**

> So last fall my boyfriend and I decided to watch all the Marvel movies from the beginning in order to gear up for Avengers Endgame. And watching them in relatively close succession sparked a huge plot bunny!
> 
> I had always wondered about what had happened to that fighter pilot in Avengers, after the Hulk got through with him; and then I realized I could pop him into _more_ Marvel movies, more-or-less realistically. 
> 
> All recognizable characters, species, and settings are the property of Marvel Comics, Marvel Studios, and/or Disney. I'm just borrowing them :) I've also grabbed dialogue straight from the movies, so all recognizable dialogue is also not mine!
> 
> Captain Ramone Peters is my own creation, I've just plopped him into conveniently available roles.
> 
> Reviews and constructive criticism welcome, flames will be ignored.
> 
> EDIT: It wasn't until this fic was mostly written that I realized how heavily I had been influenced by Zarannya's fic **Hawkeye's Merry Men** on Fanfic.net. Highly, highly recommend it. It deals with what happens to the strike team that hit the Helicarrier with Hawkeye.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Captain Ramone “Spotlight” Peters was a damned good fighter pilot.

After all, he wouldn’t be here – _here_ being S.H.I.E.L.D.’s pride-and-joy, the Helicarrier – as the newest Level Six member of Delta Flight, Bravo Squadron if he weren’t.

And while the designation was still new enough the shine hadn’t worn off (He prayed the feeling remained after his new colleagues finally decided on his new call sign), the current chaos was rapidly making clear to him exactly what his orientation officer had meant when he’d told them that “S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t here to deal with your average unexpected shit that goes sideways; it’s here to handle the sideways shit you can’t even _imagine_ happening.”

Like, for a _completely_ random example –

**“Escort 606, proceed to 270 Main Shuttle! Don’t get too close.”**

– being told to get The Hulk’s attention.

“Copy.”

His response was automatic, and Ramone slipped out of formation to follow his new orders with only a beat of hesitation.

 _Don’t get too close, she says,_ he thought bleakly; and then, _What does the Hulk consider too close?_

He wrestled with his apprehension as he slid neatly into the open belly of the Helicarrier, training taking over as he switched the F-35 to hover mode while his mind raced. 

Ramone didn’t think it was a coincidence that the Helicarrier had come under attack only minutes after a lone Quinjet had been spotted. 

_If it doesn’t have something to do with why Engine 3 is smoking blacker than Denise’s heart I’ll eat this jet._

He shook off thoughts of his ex-wife as he approached the target, flipping up his visor as the bulk of the Helicarrier darkened his view. 

“Target acquired,” he reported calmly, wincing as he watched the Hulk fling Thor around like a rag doll.

 _How the hell does he keep getting up after being smacked around like that?_ A tiny part of his mind wondered. 

“Target engaged.”

Taking a last deep breath Ramone hit the trigger and lit up the Hulk with both GAU-22/A cannons, pumping over three thousand rounds of 25 mm caliber bullets into a target area the size of a vehicle at around one-thousand metres per second.

….to absolutely _no effect whatsoever._

Incredulously, he watched as the Hulk swatted away the rounds as if they were particularly annoying mosquitoes. 

_What the fuck **is** this thing?!_

And then the Hulk was roaring at him and then _holy shit he’s charging the jet_ and Ramone felt his eyes pop wide even as he kept his finger on the trigger.

(Later, he’d swear that he’d actually locked gazes with the monster.)

He barely had time to yelp “Target angry! _Target angry!!_ ” into his radio before the Hulk landed on his jet, the sudden addition in weight causing the fighter to swing around.

Ramone strained to keep from crashing into the Helicarrier, hoping the centrifugal force would throw the beast off, but no such luck.

He could _feel_ the Hulk ripping apart his fighter, the world dissolving into chaos as warnings and lights and alarms screamed at him, catching glimpses of debris flying away as he frantically tried to keep the beast in view while the jet disintegrated around him as they spun sickeningly downward. 

When the starboard wing went, Ramone knew that was his cue.

_Get me the fucking hell out of here!!_

He’d only ever had to eject once before: an experience that had consisted of an agonizing moment of terror that he wouldn’t get free of the crashing plane, followed by relief when he did; followed by a shorter moment of terror wondering if his chute would deploy properly, which itself was again followed by relief when it did; and then even more intense relief when he’d touched down alive and with all his parts where and how they should be. 

So slightly heartened by theoretically knowing what was going to happen, he ejected. 

Half a second later, he learned the real-world value of the word ‘theoretically’ when the Hulk _grabbed his seat._

_I’m a dead man._

The strangely calm words had barely flashed across his brain before the Hulk released him with a bowel-loosening roar, his blessed, blessed chute opening up textbook perfect as if to mock the rest of the clusterfuck situation that one Captain Ramone Peters had found himself in.

By the time he’d finally been fished out of the Atlantic by incredulous crewmates, the terror had dulled enough that he was gleefully trying to judge how many free drinks he could get out of the story.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title is taken from the poem "High Flight" by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
> 
> I did my best to recreate genuine fighter pilot lingo/radio transmissions, but I am a total Civilian, so... *shrug* 
> 
> Call Sign footnote:
> 
> "Spotlight" randomly chosen, and then I realized how well it fit for this part, haha.


	2. Thor: Dark World

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When his communication line lit up with a frenzy of chatter, Captain Ramone “David” Peters listened with dawning horror.

The information being relayed to him and his flight partner Captain Lucas “Bouncer” Norrington was so unbelievable that if he hadn’t spent the past year working with the crazy that S.H.I.E.L.D. routinely dealt with, he’d think Control was having them on.

_Just once, can’t we be visited by nice, **peaceful** aliens?_

He didn’t even bother grumbling (out loud, anyway; those radios were surprisingly sensitive) once the half-expected order came down the line to turn around and engage the alien ship.

He _was_ caught off guard when Control indicated that they were to straight up blow it back to wherever the hell it’d come from.

“Say again, Big Tower?”

**“ET-1, you are cleared to engage the alien craft. I repeat: you are clear to engage the alien craft. ET-2 you are to remain on stand-by, copy.”**

Technically, the RAF had no authority to give Ramone orders (not that he was particularly minded to argue in this situation) and _technically_ S.H.I.E.L.D. had standing jurisdiction over any and all alien contact, but – _If these new guys are anything like the **last** ones, they need to be stopped here and now, jurisdiction and authority be damned._

_“ET-1 copy.”_

“ET-2 copy.”

Smoothly bringing his jet around – a Eurofighter Typhoon he was cross-training in – his ear filled with a grim chuckle.

_“Is it always this exciting flying with you S.H.I.E.L.D. boys?”_

“Oh yeah,” Ramone deadpanned. “Join S.H.I.E.L.D., meet exotic aliens, and kill them before they – _fuck me_!”

The two pilots quickly went knife-edge in order to avoid the hammer that zoomed up unexpectedly from beneath them, gone so fast the proximity alerts barely had a chance to blip at them.

Ramone could feel his ears burning as the RAF pilot chuckled, struggling despite their grim situation to contain his own laughter at his inadvertent slip.

But all humour died as the alien ship came into view.

Compared to the army that had shown up over New York last year, the sight of _one_ alien ship was a bit of a relief. The menace he could practically feel radiating off it, on the other hand, made Ramone very glad it was mere seconds away from being blasted to space-bits.

Hopefully feeding a GBU-10 Paveway II missile down the thing’s metaphorical throat would also get rid of the hole in the sky that was making his stomach do funny flips.

Flying into position, ahead and below of Bouncer, the S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot felt his heart-rate pick up as he listened to the other pilot’s calm voice as he spoke with Control.

_“Confirming ship is hostile.”_

**_“Confirm, the ship is hostile. You have permission to engage_ ** **.”**

_“Roger. The missile's locked. The missile's on its way._ ”

The fierce stab of elation he felt as he saw the missile drawing closer to its target changed to outright terror as he watched it get sucked _upwards_ at the same moment he went weightless.

_Oh god it’s pulling us in!_

Ramone wrestled with the controls, but the jet wouldn’t – couldn’t – respond.

He could hear Bouncer yelling that the missile was off target, and then –

_“Mayday! I'm losing control. Mayday! Mayday! I'm losing control!”_

– they were being drawn into what looked like a lake in the sky –

– and Ramone spent a brief eternity in the middle of a kaleidoscope, fumbling for the Flight Control System button –

– then there was a brief, blinding flash of light and the return of sweet, sweet gravity _holy mother of god it’s the wrong way_ but the autopilot had kicked in and rolled the Typhoon even before his mind could fully process what was happening and _oh fuck trees –!_

He barely registered the bright fireball of the missile hitting – something – frantically trying to figure out if there was anything other than trees to be worrying about while he reengaged manual control.

But it seemed to be clear – if stomach-droppingly unfamiliar – skies ahead, and Ramone felt some of his adrenaline ebb as he caught sight of the other Typhoon, flying in front of him with no visible damage.

 _“ – come in! Damn it,_ _Peters_ , _respond!”_

He jerked in surprise before blurting out “ET-2, copy! Norrington, you okay?”

He hadn’t even registered the other pilot’s calls over the initial adrenaline surge that had sent his heartbeat pounding into his ears.

The relieved sigh that came over his radio brought a weak commiserating smile to his face, even as he kept scanning the unfamiliar scenery below.

They were clearly _not_ in Greenwich – or even London, he suspected – anymore.

_What the hell just happened!? Where are we?_

Bouncer’s _“You got satellite, David?”_ echoed his thoughts.

“Negative, Bouncer. We should head back to the, uh, entrance portal. I, er, don’t think we’re on Earth anymore.”

The line was silent for so long, Ramone began to brace himself for a breakdown.

_“I can believe that. Don’t think there’s anywhere left on Earth that looks like **this** place.”_

Bouncer sounded calm and thoughtful, as if the RAF dealt with world-spanning portals every day, and Ramone sagged in relief.

_Thank God for that British stiff upper lip._

He eyed the view through his cockpit as his heart rate leveled out; nothing but trees, trees, and more trees, with only an occasional clearing breaking the leafy monotony.

“It is pretty gorgeous,” he admitted softly, following the other pilot into a lazy bank as they began to double-back, flying over a large clearing and getting a better look at the crude huts that he guessed denoted a village. The shock of seeing what looked like people added to the level of surrealism he was trying desperately to ignore.

“Nice for a visit, but I don’t think I’d like to live here.”

_“Do you think it will come to that?”_

Ramone was so taken aback it was several seconds before he could scramble a response.

“I don’t,” he replied, more firmly than he actually believed. “If this portal is anything like the last one, the way in is the way out, and it’s – shit it’s shrinking!”

His pulse kicked back into overdrive as they neared the clearly-not-so-gaping hole in the sky. A quick glance at his cockpit clock showed it had barely been five minutes since they’d been sucked in.

_Sucked through, rather. Just hope this thing ignores all laws of physics and sucks just as hard going the other way._

Ramone couldn’t help the dark chuckle that escaped him.

_“Care to share?”_

Though the other pilot’s tone was light, Ramone could hear the barely-repressed edge of incipient hysteria in it.

“Ah, just hoping this thing sucks on both ends, is all. Into the breach, Captain. _Fast_ ,” he added grimly.

_“After you, Captain.”_

Despite himself, he held his breath as he aimed the nose of the jet straight up. And then they were up and in and yup, there went gravity and that kaleidoscope effect again, but Ramone kept his gaze resolutely on his instruments, fingers clenching tightly on his control stick and throttle.

The flare of light was less this time (less going in this direction?), and suddenly they were soaring back over Greenwich and Control was yammering damn-near hysterically in his ear and Bouncer was laughing – somewhat hysterically as well, not that he could blame the other pilot – and Ramone had never been so relieved in his entire fucking life.

_“Hey David, first ten rounds are on you!”_

“ _Ten_ – wait, what do you mean the _first_ ten rounds?”

But he was grinning even as he was complaining, and Bouncer was too busy laughing to hear him, doing barrel-rolls in relief so sheer Ramone could practically see it emanating from the other Captain’s jet.

 _Well hell, beer’s cheaper than therapy, anyway_ , he thought with his own sigh of relief.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call Sign notes: "David" as in David fought Goliath


	3. Captain America: The Winter Soldier

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Captain Ramone “Gulliver” Peters was a seasoned, slightly decorated, well-disciplined pilot. Two years into his career with S.H.I.E.L.D. and he’d established himself as someone who barely blinked at odd situations and could roll with even the craziest of scenarios.

Yet neither ability prepared him for his current mission of _flying Captain America and his STRIKE team_.

Strictly speaking, Ramone was a _fighter_ pilot, not a Quinjet pilot. But S.H.I.E.L.D. was a big believer in cross-training, and honestly, what pilot worth their wings _wouldn’t_ want to fly a Quinjet at least once?

But when his orders had come down, he’d initially thought they were someone’s idea of a prank. Him, flying _Captain America_ on a mission? But they’d been real enough, and now here he was, easing up on the throttle as they approached the drop-off point; living the fanboy dream and trying desperately not to show it.

_I have seriously got to be dreaming._

Stealing a quick glance behind him, Ramone marveled anew that the _actual_ Captain America – not to mention the legendary _Black Widow_ herself and holy hell the guys were _never_ going to let him hear the end of this – were really standing in the Quinjet, going over the mission parameters with Agent Rumlow.

He fought to keep his voice even as he keyed, “Coming up on the drop zone, Captain.”

Then it took all of his self-control to not yelp in panic when he heard an agent ask if the Captain had really jumped out _without a parachute_.

But neither the Black Widow nor the rest of the STRIKE team looked concerned about it, so Ramone slumped back into his seat and shook his head as he sealed the hatch after the drop.

_I guess the super-soldier serum upped his batshit crazy level too._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mere days later, Ramone’s entire _world_ went batshit crazy with the shocking revelation that not only had HYDRA infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D., but it had essentially _become_ the organization.

He’d just returned from a Quinjet flight – he hadn’t even had a chance to get out of his flight suit yet – when Captain Rogers had dropped his atomic bombshell of an announcement, and for several minutes afterwards no one in the hangar had moved.

_HYDRA…has taken over S.H.I.E.L.D.? No way, it’s gotta be somebody’s idea of a sick –_

The sudden sounds of gunfire and explosions coming from outside the hangar galvanized Ramone into action, and he instinctively began to head back to his recently vacated Quinjet.

_I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I trust the Captain; and that’s apparently all I can do, right now._

As he strode back to the flight deck, something else the Captain had said niggled at his brain.

_He said HYDRA had **shot** Nick Fury. Not that they’d killed him. _

“What the actual fuck, eh Gulliver?”

Pulled out of his swirling thoughts, Ramone could only stare blankly at the speaker.

Captain Michael “Grassroots” O’Leary gave him a strained smile as he fell into step beside the other pilot. “I mean, how the hell are we supposed to be able to tell if someone’s HYDRA or S.H.I.E.L.D., right?”

Ramone shrugged helplessly as he adjusted his equipment, flinching at the spat of automatic fire coming from somewhere behind them. More pilots had joined now, roughly a half dozen of them heading resolutely towards the Quinjets.

“I guess if they start shooting at us, they’re HYDRA?”

“Guess that means you lot are okay then, eh?”

“We don’t have guns,” he felt obliged to point out, causing O’Leary to bark a strained laugh as he dropped slightly back.

Ramone had just dropped his visor and the pilot to his right was hollering into a radio – “All S.H.I.E.L.D. pilots, scramble! We're the only air support Captain Rogers has got –” when the whine of a rocket reached their ears.

He and the rest of the pilots hit the deck, nothing on his mind but an endless chant of oaths and prayers as the Quinjet to their left took a hit.

_What –?!_

He staggered to his feet just in time to get hit with the shockwave from the damaged Quinjet crashing back to the tarmac.

And then there was a figure coming out of the flames, silver arm shining, firing again – and there were more flames and more screaming and more yelling – and then the second (jet? Rocket?) hit practically at his feet, throwing Ramone back head over heels, and he didn’t even have time for a last thought before his head slammed into the ground, only a wave of horror and regret –

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call Sign notes: "Gulliver" because he went to a strange new land and saw tiny people.


	4. Interlude

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three days after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., Ramone limped his way out of the George Washington University Hospital.

He’d been given a clean bill of health – aside from a concussion, slightly banged up right ankle from being hit with a piece of burning fuselage, and various bumps and bruises as a result of being pile-driven into the tarmac – but his physical condition was the least of his concerns at the moment.

_Now what?_

S.H.I.E.L.D. as he knew it – hell, as the whole _world_ knew it – was gone. With the revelation that the international peacekeeping agency had really been HYDRA all along, as well as the release of every single piece of classified information, the worldview Ramone had had was turned upside down and inside out.

The reporters who’d swarmed his room and those of his colleagues who’d also ended up at GWUH were relentless. They’d refused to take “No comment” for an answer, and their shark-like frenzy had only gotten worse when two “Trojans” – the media’s sickening blanket nickname for former S.H.I.E.L.D. employees – had committed suicide.

The hospital had been only too eager to discharge the remaining ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. members after that, to his absolute fury. And his anger only built as he shoved his way through the crowd of media that had camped outside every exit, ignoring every microphone.

By the time Ramone finally managed to escape the crowd his rage was a red blindfold in front of him; he barely registered the sunlight filtering through the trees, or the scent of fresh air, or the disturbingly normal sounds of people going about their business all around him.

Putting his head down he kept walking until he hit a barricade, only then realizing his feet were taking him in the direction of Theodore Roosevelt Island. Emergency services had quickly been pushed aside by the military, which had set up a perimeter around Ground Zero, as it was being called.

_No._

Bleak despair eroded his anger and he blindly turned away, walking even faster. When he managed to get himself under control enough that he could pay attention to more than just not walking into traffic, his head was aching and his ankle was screaming.

_Fuck. I need to sit down._

Shifting to take the weight off his screaming joint Ramone took his bearings, surprised to discover that he’d walked all the way to the Constitution Gardens.

In fact –

Slowly limping, he made his way to the Three Servicemen, dodging the mid-afternoon crowd, forcing himself to walk – well, limp – normally. His shoulder blades felt like they had a target painted on them, and it was only with supreme effort that he was able to act like he was a tourist instead of the twitchy, paranoid mess he felt like.

He didn’t _think_ HYDRA would be sending out hit squads to take down former S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives – at least, not so soon – but better paranoid than dead.

The only bench in the area faced away from the statue, so Ramone braced himself on the back of it to rest. Swallowing against a sudden burn in his eyes, he let his gaze rest on the granite backs of the three soldiers for a moment before turning to follow their eternal gaze to the Memorial Wall.

_Who will remember us?_

A painful mix of anger, guilt, shame and grief swamped him.

Lying in his hospital bed and watching the TV in horrified fascination as S.H.I.E.L.D. was dismantled in front of his eyes, all that ran through Ramone’s mind was the mounting death toll.

Not only from the destruction of the Triskelion and the Helicarriers – and the falling debris from all of it – but how many covert operatives were mid-op when their covers were all blown?

How many sleeper HYDRA agents, on seeing their activities brought to light, had turned on their blindsided colleagues?

How many S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities had been overrun by furious civilian or terrorist groups?

God, he didn’t even want to _think_ about what was happening in the Middle East right now.

The military had taken over a large chunk of responsibility in dealing with the fallout – at least, here in the States – and Ramone shuddered as he envisioned a gleeful scavenger picking over a very large corpse.

He’d already been visited by a representative of good ol’ Uncle Sam, who’d been surprisingly blunt in stating that while Ramone would _not_ be welcomed back into the United States Air Force – or the air force of any of her allies, for that matter – he was strongly encouraged to share any intelligence he may have had access to.

The visit had only gone downhill from there, shockingly. He’d been warned not to leave the city, but there was no way the military had the kind of manpower to pick through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bones, deal with HYDRA, _and_ keep tabs on every single former employee.

_So now what?_

Aside from a brief call to his parents to reassure them that he was still alive, Ramone hadn’t talked to anyone else who wasn’t a medical professional in days.

He’d attempted to speak with some of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. employees, but interactions had been so strained he had quickly stopped. The realization that so many of his coworkers had been HYDRA without him – without _anyone_ – having a clue had forced the survivors into a ‘trust no one’ mindset; and conversations had been stilted and flavoured with mistrust.

All of them were afraid; not only for the obvious reasons, but also the more personal. Thousands of people were suddenly out of work; and they (and their families) were being targeted for having worked at S.H.I.E.L.D., regardless of what their actual level of involvement with the organization was.

And if a person was someone with a rather specific set of skills – as in, say, a _fighter pilot_ – who could no longer fly, what were they supposed to do?

Ramone wrestled with that question as he stared unseeing at the Wall, only peripherally aware of the crowds thinning out, and the temperature dropping as the sun began to set.

It wasn’t until he realized he couldn’t discern the Wall from the darkness did he come back to awareness.

_Shit. How long have I been here?_

“Bad idea to be caught unawares at the best of times; and these are _not_ the best of times. Especially for someone like you.”

Ramone was reacting even before he registered the actual words. Recoiling from the bench, he belatedly realized he had no idea when the other man had shown up and broke out in a cold sweat.

“Relax,” the lounging figure said laconically, not moving from his seat at the other end of the bench. “If my aim in coming here had been to kill you, you’d already be dead. Since you aren’t, clearly my aim is different.”

“Who are you?” Ramone snapped, hands clenching as his adrenaline surged. He didn’t recognize the voice, and he could barely make out the man’s profile.

The other man tsked. “You know better than that,” he rebuked mildly. “Let’s just say that…hmmm…I’m a messenger from _a desperate man_.”

_What?_

“What?” Ramone blurted out, hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. That phrase….

The ‘accidentally’ leaked footage of Loki in the cell aboard the Helicarrier had been one of the most popular videos in S.H.I.E.L.D. for months following the invasion of New York.

But it hadn’t been Loki who’d said those words, it had been –

“We’ll be in touch,” the man got up abruptly and Ramone took a step back in reflex. “Unless you’d rather we weren’t, in which case you know what to do with that.”

“Know what to do with what?”

But the man was already walking away, leaving Ramone feeling once more like he’d had the rug pulled out from under him.

He waited ten minutes before cautiously approaching the bench. It took him ten more minutes to work up the courage to pick up the tiny, blinking S.H.I.E.L.D. pin sitting innocuously where the other man had been sitting; a pin that stopped blinking as soon as he picked it up.

It starts up again just over a year later.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	5. Avengers: Age of Ultron

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It’s the middle of the night when the blinking blue light caught his eye and Ramone, sitting at his desk in the midst of another bout of insomnia, didn’t register its significance at first.

_…that’s not a hallucination._

Bolting up from his chair, he’d only barely picked up the pin from where he’d prominently displayed it on the desk when there was a soft tap on his office window.

His first instinct was to freeze, because even now former S.H.I.E.L.D. employees are still being targeted, but logic overrides instinct to tell him that an assassin isn’t going to _knock_ before killing him.

Ramone can’t identify the man in tactical gear crouching in his bushes, but recognizes the voice when his visitor tells him, “If you still believe in what the pin symbolizes, get your bag and let’s go.”

Hope is a painful thing so he doesn’t let himself think on it, instead flying up the stairs to dig out the bug out bag he’s kept in the corner of the closet over Sandra’s gentle teasing – she doesn’t know he was S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d told her simply that he was an ex-serviceman – and leaving her a hasty note she won’t see until she gets in from her night shift at the hospital.

He’s not sure how they’ve come to decide that he’s trustworthy, but he’s surprisingly afraid of the answer and so doesn’t ask, even as the man hands him a blindfold.

It’s a jarring drive followed by a plane trip and then another car ride before the blindfold is taken off, leaving Ramone blinking in an underground cavern.

Once he registers what he sees though –

_Holy shit_ **_yes._ **

It’s a Helicarrier – an old one, but still – and there’s people running around in suits and tactical gear, and standing on a walkway, lording above it all, is _Nick motherfucking Fury._

_I knew the sonnuvabitch couldn’t be dead!_

“The hell are you waiting for, Captain?”

Ramone’s pretty sure he’s grinning like an idiot, but his still unnamed recruiter merely gives him a tight grin back as he keeps moving, Ramone following instinctively.

“No fighter jets, we’re kind of working outta the scrap heap here. You and your buddies will be piloting Transporters, likely under heavy fire with little to no backup. You still in?”

There’s a slight hitch in his step, but a heartbeat later his conviction hardens. If Fury is dragging this old girl out of storage to use its lifeboats, it means there is some serious shit hitting the fan somewhere.

“I’m in.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They’re somewhere over central Europe when the call goes out for all pilots to scramble to the Transporters, waking Ramone from a light doze.

He’s out the door and several feet down the hallway before he realizes it, joining a rather skeletal group of pilots and medics and whoever else they’ve press-ganged into helping.

“Well shit. You’re like that Chinese curse, you know that Gulliver?”

Ramone scrambles to remember the other pilot’s name, but doesn’t miss a beat and fires back, “I’m _Mexican,_ you racist idiot. They must’ve been really hard up to bring _you_ back, Motor.”

But he’s grinning just as widely as Motor as the other pilot falls into a step beside him, both men going just short of a run.

“Yeah yeah fuck you too, Gully,” Captain Aaron “Motor” Border fires back cheerfully, “ – but every time you show up it means interesting times, and I _do not_ wanna get sucked into one of your interesting times, y’know?”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

He can’t hear the other man’s reply over the sound of the alarms as they hit the hangar and peel off to their respective ‘boats.

“Hey Peters! You got a new call sign this time too?”

The next cheery taunt comes just as he reaches his assigned Transporter, and despite the tension he can’t help the fierce grin that slides across his face at another familiar voice.

“Good to see you still breathing air, Grassroots!”

The other pilot waves back before ducking into his own lifeboat, and Ramone smirks to himself as he straps in and commences his pre-flight checks.

When he does his radio check as “Captain Ramone “T-800” Peters” there’s a noticeable pause, but luckily Control has seen _Terminator_ and confirms with an audible grin despite the situation.

He doesn’t actually find out the situation until the hangar doors are sliding open and he’s steering his lifeboat out of the Helicarrier and _holy fuck are those Ironman suits?!_

Whatever they are, he catches a glimpse of War Patriot blowing some up, so it’s probably safe to assume that the flying tin cans Are Not Friendlies.

The next few hours – days? – pass in a blur, and Ramone’s entire world is narrowed down to loading up the lifeboat, navigating the hostile skies back to the Helicarrier, unloading, and then flying back to do it all again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over, until he’s gearing up for the next run but Control’s yelling at him to stay put and he just sort of…sags in his seat as the cumulative exhaustion hits him like a runaway train, and he’s not sure if he can undo his straps.

He knows not all the lifeboats have made it back – had felt his own take more than a few hits – and he’s afraid to step out and find out how many friends he’s lost this time.

_The saviours come not home tonight,_

_Themselves they could not save._

Ramone can’t remember where he’d heard the quote, but the mix of emotions that fills him as he recalls it is enough to drive his weary carcass out of the seat it feels permanently welded to in an effort to escape them.

S.H.I.E.L.D. as he knew it may be gone too, but he doesn’t regret coming back to it – whatever this is, regardless of the price it will take (has taken). If nothing else, this past year of playing civilian has shown Ramone that he’s not done doing his bit just yet.

There’s one of his ‘boat’s medics sitting awkwardly slumped in a corner as he exits, clearly exhausted beyond use.

At least that’s what he thinks, until he gets closer and sees the piece of shrapnel (from one of the tin suits? The city itself? Another lifeboat?) sticking out of the man’s far thigh.

_Fucking hell._

Ramone checks for a pulse anyway, but it’s more out of reflex than hope. It’s clear the shrapnel had hit the man’s femoral artery and he’d bled out.

He takes a moment to lay the man out and close his eyes, silently promising to come back and make sure he’s properly taken care of before getting up and striding off the lifeboat.

He knows there’s more death waiting in front of him, but his steps don’t falter. The words Captain America spoke when he’d laid bare the rot at the heart of S.H.I.E.L.D. ring in Ramone’s head.

_The price of freedom is high, it always has been. And it’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it. But I’m willing to bet I’m not._

_You aren’t, Captain,_ Ramone thinks sadly, _I just hope the price is something we can afford._

_And if it isn’t, I hope you’ll be around to avenge us._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is taken from the first poem in the series of poems known as "A Shropshire Lad" by A. E. Housman.
> 
> Call Sign notes: "T-800" taken from the _Terminator_ franchise. Cause, you know, "I'll be back" = Ramone keeps coming back? Yeah I got nothing left -_-;;


End file.
